


Legacy

by alby_mangroves



Series: Yuletide Stories [13]
Category: Winnetou - Karl May
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Brothers, Character Death Fix, Cultural Differences, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Yuletide 2018, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17152313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: “Do you still have those books?” Charlie asked, wondering if—in the absence of a family—a person’s things were distributed among the people, or if perhaps they were buried along with them. He was dismayed to imagine Klekih-petra’s possessions disposed of in such a way, but the Apache did not hoard worldly goods the way Europeans did. Charlie could not ask such a question without casting aspersions on their traditions and customs.He only hoped Winnetou would understand his meaning. But then, when had Winnetou ever disappointed him?





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).



> Thanks to [redacted] for the beta and cheering!

# ⥈

Night fell in stages at the pueblo. When Charlie had been Winnetou’s captive he’d lain awake and listened to the night sounds, wondering what he was hearing, unable to see anything beyond slivers of moonlight coming through the leather flap hung as a door, and unable to ask.

He could come and go as he pleased now that they were brothers. He could ask all the questions he wanted now that his injuries had healed and he could speak again. Peace had descended upon the Mescalero once more, and though Intschu-tschuna was how hunting in the Ever Summer Lands with his ancestors, his killers had been brought to justice.

Now that he was no longer a prisoner Charlie had been given quarters higher up in the pueblo, and the open stone shelf that the pueblo was set into awarded a magnificent view of the valley below, the river edged by the dense forest beyond. 

From the outside, the pueblo looked like a medieval castle carved into the rock, small windows with the look of balistariums about them scattered among doorways and balconies and spires and ladders. From the inside, it was as though one was living in the mountain: cool and dark, with a sense of safety and a wide, sprawling view that angels could envy.

It was a wonderfully defensible home for the Mescalero - the mountain cliffs at their backs with the pueblo hewn into the living rock, and the open plains stretching out for miles before them, enemies unable to conceal their approach. Standing on the open plateau of the shared balcony at night was a wonder Charlie couldn’t have imagined as a teacher back home; he’d been so naive to think he’d understood the beauty of this land from descriptions alone. Now that he was here, it overwhelmed him still - the sheer empty expanse, sundrenched and endless, and at night the stars seemed so close—close enough to touch—the reflection of them like a scatter of silver coins floating on the surface of the river.

Charlie would sit on the edge of the balcony, feet swinging down, and breathe in deeply, trying to commit to memory this sight that only one other white man had ever seen before. He was no Klekih-petra who had lived and worked among the Apache for decades to earn such an honor, and the trust placed in him was immense. Charlie would never take it for granted. 

Now, when he ventured outside of his chambers at night, he could see that the sounds he’d heard as a captive were those of industry; it seemed that the pueblo never really slept. There were likely to be several small fires scattered here and there near the pueblo’s foundations, and small groups of people going about their business, even this late into the night.

A small party of men might be preparing to head out to check animal traps, trekking silently in single file to the edge of the forest and disappearing among the trees, while at another fire a woman might be telling a story to a group that would gather around her. Sometimes Charlie would see Nscho-tschi among them, the bearing of her shoulders unmistakeable even from a distance. They were lessons of some kind, then, ancient wisdoms being passed down to the younger generation.

Winnetou’s sister was ever hungry to learn and her people followed her, showing deference to the elders she respected with her presence. Every day, every time his eyes fell upon her, Charlie was so thankful she had survived Santer’s cowardly attack.

Charlie had seen the scar from the gunshot that had almost claimed her young life; she wore it like a warrior, showing a mark of honor. She was a beacon to her people and without her, Charlie imagined a much different future for the Apache tribes. Winnetou, for one, would be forever changed by such grief - he had been a silent shadow when his father was slain, but had needed to assume the mantle of the tribe’s leader and had done so. Had his sister died too, there’d have been no measuring the well of his grief or the lengths he’d have gone to to avenge her at the expense of his own life and safety.

Tonight, though, Charlie would not see Nscho-tschi down by the fires, nor any of the other signs of Mescalero life happening below. Tonight, there was a storm unfolding in the distance, and even as Charlie looked out from the balcony rain started to steadily fall. Lightning webbed bright and sudden over the firmament, illuminating the vast landscape as bright as daylight only to dissipate back into darkness. The echo of it danced under Charlie’s eyelids.

Soft footfalls announced a visitor or a passer-by; the balconies and walkways were all connected, allowing the inhabitants to move freely, sturdy wood or rope ladders joining level to level, ingeniously retractable if the pueblo was under attack. 

“My brother does not sleep?”

A most welcome visitor, then. Charlie turned, smiling, and Winnetou came to stand next to him. Rain had caught him on his way down, pearls of it glistening in his long hair, and Charlie drank him in before turning away. Something had begun to grow between them since they’d returned from their mission to bring Santer to justice, Charlie was certain of it. 

“I wanted to take a walk, but Mother Nature had other plans,” Charlie said, sensing that Winnetou was studying his face as much as the storm. His skin felt Winnetou’s gaze like a warm caress.

“My brother’s beliefs are strange. I know we already agreed that you would never speak to me about your god, but I did not know that your people believed in the spirits that are all around us in the land and the sky.”

“Oh! Well,” Charlie said, considering how best to explain. “I guess that Mother Nature is not a spirit so much as the personification of the earth, and all the life on it.” He shook his head. “The expression comes from the ancient world, from the Greeks and the Romans. They personified nature as the great mother who nurtures all.”

Winnetou nodded, and when Charlie looked back, he was smiling. “Old Shatterhand speaks wisely. Just like him, Klekih-petra also read many ancient Greek books. When he was teaching Nscho-tschi and myself English, he allowed us to read their translations too, and he taught us how to understand the meaning of such things as their poetry and philosophy.”

Charlie, who had seen how much Winnetou loved reading Longfellow, was not surprised in the least to hear that he’d enjoyed this, and it occurred to him then that he did not know what happened to the possessions of an Apache when they died.

“Do you still have those books?” he asked, wondering if—in the absence of a family—a person’s things were distributed among the people, or if perhaps they were buried along with them. He was dismayed to imagine Klekih-petra’s possessions disposed of in such a way, but the Apache did not hoard worldly goods the way Europeans did. Charlie could not ask such a question without casting aspersions on their traditions and customs. He only hoped Winnetou would understand his meaning. But then, when had Winnetou ever disappointed him?

“Come, Sharlih. Let me show you,” Winnetou said, and took his elbow, invoking his private name and making Charlie’s heart trip over itself to follow Winnetou to the ends of the earth, and not just up the ladder and to his quarters, higher up in the pueblo.

# ⥈

Though Winnetou had come to see him many times since the end of his captivity, Charlie had never visited Winnetou’s rooms before.

Winnetou lifted the heavy leather flap away from the door to admit Charlie inside, where a fire in a central hearth lit the space within, centered under a smoke-hole which had been carved into the ceiling. Bunches of various dried flora hung on hooks set into thick, handmade clay brick walls. Among other weapons, Winnetou’s famous silver-studded rifle, his prized Silberbüchse, was also set upon the wall in a place of honor alongside a wooden bench, upon which rested Iltschi’s decorative ceremonial saddle.

There were animal skins on the beaten dirt floor, and a beautiful, handwoven blanket draped across Winnetou’s sleeping pallet, raised up off the ground on a wide stone step hewn straight from the mountain rock.

Finally, Charlie took note of a wooden bench unlike anything he’d seen in the Mescalero pueblo to date, and he knew immediately that it must have belonged to Klekih-petra, Winnetou’s much-loved teacher and friend.

“He had it made to his own design,” Winnetou said, as though reading Charlie’s thoughts. “He said it reminded him of his home.” Indeed, Charlie could see where certain characteristics of European style had been applied, though the wood was very light in color and unvarnished in its finish. It was beautiful, and on top of it, books. Many, many books.

Charlie huffed a delighted laugh. “May I see?”

“My brother may do as he wishes in my home, for it is also his,” Winnetou said quietly, and Charlie looked up at that, finding Winnetou’s soft gaze upon him, turning his insides to syrup. He cleared his throat, feeling the heat of a blush rising over his neck. Nodding his thanks, he moved to the cabinet and tried to read the titles of Klekih-petra’s books, but his eyes were unseeing as Winnetou came toward him, his presence like a lick of lightning over Charlie’s back.

“I have read them all, many times,” Winnetou said. “They are all I have left of Klekih-petra, but our white father also taught us that the wisdoms within are not unlocked all at once, but sometimes make themselves known over time as we revisit the stories, and understand their meaning.”

“He was very wise, and he loved you above his own life,” Charlie said, for it was true. With his dying breath, the old man had begged for Charlie to protect Winnetou the way he could no longer do himself. Winnetou nodded - it was not news to him. They had sat side-by-side and relived those final moments a time or two.

“My brother did not know him the way we did,” Winnetou said quietly, firelight casting his raven’s wing hair to russet and gold. “He was forced to flee his home, and came to us with a heart full of sorrow for a love he left behind.”

Charlie was stunned. He had not known, but then again he’d barely met Klekih-petra before the man was murdered. Beside him, Winnetou was silent for a beat, as though gathering his thoughts. 

“These books, nearly all these books . . . ” Winnetou said, picking one up. “They all speak of forbidden love, of lost love, or love never found.” He held the book aloft for Charlie to see: it was _the Iliad_ , Charlie saw on the spine. “I do not want my life to be like these stories.”

“Nobody truly does,” Charlie said quietly, “though we love the romantic idea of dying for love.”

“I know this to be true, because this is also in the books, and when Nscho-tschi fell to Santer’s treachery, I would have gladly given my life to save hers.” Winnetou looked up, holding Charlie’s gaze with his own beautiful dark eyes.

“I give thanks every day that this did not come to pass,” Charlie said, and the feeling he had been having—the sense of a thing growing between them—it was here. It was now. Charlie felt as though he’d been struck by lightning, lit within by some elemental force. Winnetou took his hands between both of his as he did sometimes when they spoke closely of private matters, and Charlie couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, drowning in desperate hope. They had left the chill of the rainstorm outside, but Charlie’s skin broke out in goosebumps at even this light touch.

“It is why I now say to my brother that dying for love is noble and worthy of any true heart. But what about living for love?”

“Oh, Winnetou,” Charlie said, voice breaking. 

“We are one soul and one mind in two bodies, is it not so?”

“It is just so.”

“Then I need not be brave to say these words, I need only to speak the truth, and if my brother, Sharlih, does not share the wish of my heart, I know that he will forgive me for speaking this truth, and will not hold it against me. Is this not also true?”

“It is true.” Charlie’s heart galloped in his chest and he held onto Winnetou’s hands like a drowning man to a single floating reed.

“Very well. My truth is this,” Winnetou said, and stepped gently into Charlie’s arms. “My dear Sharlih,” he whispered, and brought their lips together in a soft kiss, only one, a gentle press, but when he would step away, Charlie held on to him with a sob, put his arms around him and kissed him again and again until they were one pillar of two bodies embracing in the warmth of Winnetou’s home, the rainstorm raging outside.

They stood together and exchanged kiss after seeking, hungry kiss, and Charlie’s heart was beating so loud, Winnetou could probably feel it right through his soft suede shirt. When they finally broke apart, Charlie brought his hands up to sink them in Winnetou’s hair, just as thick and soft as he remembered of the cutting he’d secretly carried with him as proof of his daring rescue.

“My brother will not be able to walk freely for some days. The rains will not leave us so soon,” Winnetou said, and Charlie became aware once more of the space outside of their embrace. The rain was falling hard, now, and thunder came more often than before. The storm was here to stay, but who could care, when he had Winnetou in his arms? Charlie smiled.

“It’s July, and I read about this, the summer monsoon rains. They don’t last long but they can be very intense, and even cause floods.” It was another reason why the pueblo made perfect sense as a style of home for the tribe. The river’s banks would swell but ultimately carry away any water that had breached the plateau, and the inhabitants of the pueblo would be safe and sound up above, sheltered by the mountain.

“Will you stay here with me, Sharlih?” Winnetou said, and kissed him again. “Will you read with me?”

“Until we run out of books,” Charlie said, “And forever after that.”

# ⥈


End file.
